


I've Built My Dreams Around You

by rilla



Series: Dancing On My Own [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Christmas, Epilogue, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rilla/pseuds/rilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ridiculously sappy, wintery epilogue set in the nothingy bit between Christmas and New Year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Built My Dreams Around You

**Author's Note:**

> So this is sort of a sequel to [Dancing On My Own](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2402417). Possibly it could stand up alone. It's extremely gross and sappy and self-indulgent. The title's from Fairytale of New York, aka the best Christmas song of all time. Also, if this ruins the original fic for you, please feel COMPLETELY FREE to disregard this. It felt a bit like writing fanfiction for my own story.

The two of them go for a walk along the South Bank together, in the nothingy days between Christmas and New Year. Harry doesn’t have work; the whole team has a couple of weeks off, which feels a lot like school holidays, and Zayn’s taken some time off too, so they can spend a few days together. They’re too broke to go anywhere, especially after Barcelona in October, but it’s nice waking up without an alarm, Zayn tugging him sleepily back down into bed after Harry starts to roll away from him, kissing his neck and chest and then slowly, sweetly falling asleep again.

Having the flat to themselves is another treat. Usually Niall’s there, and Harry loves Niall, and he loves it when Barbara’s around too, but they’re still away for Christmas, spending time with Niall’s dad and then his mum, and then Barbara’s family. Harry’s a little hazy on the details, because when Niall said “We’ll be away for a while” what Harry heard was “You can have sex _anywhere in the flat that you like._ ” So far they’ve had noisy sex in the shower most mornings, which has been pretty excellent. A couple of days ago Zayn bent Harry over the kitchen table and fucked him hard, and then the next day he slowly, perfectly rode Harry’s dick on the sofa. Harry would feel bad, but he knows what Niall and Barbara got up to when he and Zayn spent a few days with Harry’s family over Easter, because there were some very suspect fingerprints in the butter when they got back again. 

Spending time by themselves feels grown-up. It’s nice. They make dinner together and eat at the kitchen table instead of on the sofa, and they buy nice wine because Harry’s pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do when you have a sophisticated night in with your boyfriend, and Harry lights candles until Zayn starts opening windows pointedly and saying things like “Is that fucking _patchouli_?” which is both rude and accurate. 

Today the sun is shining. They got up early to miss the crowds, so London is oddly empty. The sky is a deep, headstrong blue, clear and bright, and the air is so cold that Harry feels like sweet, sharp crystals are forming in his lungs every time he takes a breath. He’s bundled up warm, wearing a scarf that Zayn made him put on before they left the house, and a dark green woolly hat from Doniya, and matching gloves from Waliyha. The tip of Zayn’s nose is faintly pink, and so are his cheeks; he reaches out to hold Harry’s hand, their chunky woolly fingers in their gloves clumsy, but Harry’s still fairly certain he can feel the warmth of Zayn’s hand through it. The warmth of Zayn is something that still surprises him pretty frequently, the soft look in his eyes sometimes, the way his hands can be gentler than Harry could ever have imagined. He’s quiet, a little awkward sometimes, not completely comfortable in some situations, like his too-frequent cigarette breaks at Nick’s insane Christmas party, but Harry likes everything about him anyway. His bluntness, the way he mumbles to himself when he doesn’t feel like people are listening properly, how he opens up like a flower to the sun when you focus fully on him. And somehow, despite everything, all the differences between the two of them, it works.

They walk through the tangled streets from London Bridge station to the river and down towards the Globe. “I went there with Taylor once,” Harry says, trying and failing to squeeze Zayn’s hand through their gloves. “We saw…” For the life of him he can’t remember what they saw. Something he barely understood, he knows that for sure. “Some Shakespeare,” he adds, lamely.

Zayn laughs over at him. “My intellectual boyfriend. Did you like it?”

“I didn’t know what was happening,” Harry admits. 

“Did you stand?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah. Right by the stage. One of the actors spat on me. Not on purpose,” Harry adds.

“I think that’s probably your fault for annoying them and making that funny face you always do when you’re concentrating,” Zayn says.

“Probably,” Harry agrees. Shakespeare with Taylor seems like a million years ago. Summer in London with Taylor was idyllic, like a dream he only remembers snatches of; he feels as though it was someone else holding her hand and taking her for cream teas and trying to fit into a life that was never really his. Summer with Zayn was kissing on Hampstead Heath, sweaty and shirtless and too close in public, dried out grass prickling his bare back as he stroked his hands up Zayn’s sides, the sun behind Zayn’s head, haloing him, skin gleaming like he was made of gold. Pressing themselves against the cool stone walls inside Harry’s entryway with moans of relief when they got back from work and clammy tube journeys full of other people’s sweat. Taking the train down to Brighton for the weekend, holding Zayn’s hand and coaxing him further and further into the sea, finally convincing him to put his face under and cheering when he surfaced again, shaking water out of his eyes, laughing and triumphant. Barbecues at Liam and Sophia’s, the kitchen table and patio furniture pushed close together in their tiny back garden, brilliant white cloths spread out and food piled high, cold beers and icy jugs of Pimms. The dusky, soft noises that Olivia made in her sling over Eleanor’s chest, the curve of Louis’s hand over her head when he took her to put her down inside in the dark and cool. The fact that Louis is a father is something that will never cease to astonish Harry. Walking home in the pale midsummer night with Niall and Barbara, fingers tangled with Zayn’s, getting left behind as they kissed half-drunk in the street, Zayn’s shoulders gleaming and the ink on his arms dark, telling secrets that Harry worked out one by one, all by himself.

Winter is different. Winter is just as good. School carol concerts that Louis dragged them to, picking out presents for a baby for the first time, Nick's immense rave of a Christmas party that made Zayn freak out after he gained three hundred new Instagram followers after Nick posted a picture of him with a note complimenting his bone structure. Singing Fairytale of New York with Niall at karaoke as Zayn and Barbara laughed at them from their booth, Louis’s birthday party on the 23rd, much more sedate than usual this year because of Olivia, just the eight of them sitting around, talking and eating and drinking, the Christmas tree lights glittering at them from the corner. Harry thinks it might have been his favourite of Louis’s birthday parties yet.

Zayn’s hair is falling over his face. He shakes it back and then smiles over at Harry. “We should go there this summer,” he says. “We can read the play summaries on Wikipedia first.”

“Good plan,” Harry says, very seriously, and they smile at each other, and walk on. They duck inside the Turbine Gallery at the Tate just to stare up at its ceiling, towering so high above them, and they get crepes at the little shop in Gabriel’s Wharf. Zayn leans in and licks a tiny swipe of Nutella off the side of Harry’s mouth before kissing him; he tastes like strawberries, white chocolate, home, comfort, love. Even though it’s still early there are a few skateboarders at the Southbank Centre, and Zayn gets closer than he should, inspecting graffiti, eyes lighting up at the colours and the shapes. Harry stays well back, because he knows that if anyone’s going to be losing any teeth because of an errant scooter, it will absolutely be him.

Zayn rejoins him after a moment with all his teeth still intact. “I used to love street art,” he says. “I always wanted to use spray paints on my walls but my mum said no and then Perrie said no, so…”

“Cheap vandalism,” Harry says, to make Zayn shove him, which he does. 

“Shut up, you absolute twat! It’s art.”

“Would you love me more than Perrie if I let you spray paint our bedroom?” Harry asks.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Number one, you'd choke and die. Number two, you have the dubious honour of being the love of my stupid life—”

“Even though you got all sad about your wedding anniversary,” Harry says, just because he can.

A flicker goes over Zayn’s face before he schools it into a scowl. “Are you actually bringing that up again? Are you serious?”

“No,” Harry says, even though he sort of is.

“Of course I’m sad about it,” Zayn mutters. Sometimes he ends up looking like a lost little boy when he’s upset, even though he’s pushing thirty-one. “I'm allowed to be sad about it. I was horrible to her.”

“She’s fine now though,” Harry reminds him, because according to Facebook, Perrie now has a very nice boyfriend and a baby due in March. 

Zayn shrugs. His scowl is falling away bit by bit every second that passes. After a moment he sighs, and puts his hand into Harry’s again. “Still,” he says, sounding heavy.

“Still,” Harry agrees. He wishes it had been different. He wishes it had been easier to fall in love. He wishes there hadn’t been any wives or girlfriends, but it’s not like there’s anything they can do about it now. There’s just the future. Even though it used to seem like something that sparkled over the horizon, faraway and unattainable, these days the future feels more like something that’s unravelling, slow and sweet. Being with the right person isn’t something that automatically brought him happiness, and having a job he enjoys didn’t make things suddenly brilliant, but they definitely help. He thinks he’ll always want more and more, more security and more freedom all at once, more money, more drama, more passion, the wild ups and downs of a life that he no longer has any more since he gave up being single to wake up next to the same person every morning. There are parts of him that wish Zayn would be more demonstrative, more emotional, that he’d have a proper argument instead of doing his usual terrifying thing where he gets more and more silent and then spits something that’s both completely cruel and completely accurate at Harry before stalking off. 

But Zayn is kind, and he’s always there, and he listens carefully and even though he doesn’t take any shit he always knows how to make Harry feel better if he’s upset or annoyed. He’s nice to waiters and bar staff, and he always stops to pat dogs, and Harry knows that he wants to have kids one day, which he's realised is actually fairly important to him. He drops everything to look after Harry when he’s ill, even when they went to Berlin on their first ever holiday and Harry got the world’s worst food poisoning, and he likes to put his head on Harry’s shoulder when they’re watching TV at night. He’s also the funniest person Harry’s ever met, even if he does worry that he’s being racist whenever he laughs at Zayn’s imitations of his relatives. There’s also – Harry knows that you have to try to be better. That you have to be cleverer and kinder and more generous that you’re naturally inclined to be, that you have to leave the world in a better state than you found it in. And he knows that Zayn agrees with that, but he also knows that Zayn loves him no matter what he’s like, and it’s the most refreshing and wonderful thing he’s ever felt in his life.

They walk down further and linger at the book market, and watch the street performers setting up. A woman carefully inspects a unicycle, as a bright silver human statue dressed as the Tin Man retouches his hands. In the distance Harry can see the London Eye, but halfway there there’s a huge Christmas tree, dripping with gold and red. Harry nudges Zayn and says, “Reminds me of ours,” which isn't true, because theirs was shit and this one is not.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me. I was the one who carried it up the stairs.”

“That was both of us,” Harry protests.

“You absolutely did not pull your weight,” Zayn says, and shakes his head as though he’s extremely disappointed with Harry.

They had their own Christmas this year, which was nice, on the 22nd, just the two of them decorating their tree before a big roast dinner and opening all their presents to each other, because the 23rd was Louis’s birthday party and they were both set to go home on Christmas Eve. It was the third Christmas Eve in a row that Harry had to say goodbye to him at St Pancras train station, but it’s the only time that he felt himself tearing up the moment that Zayn was out of eyeshot. Spending Christmas separately had felt oddly fucked up, considering they’d spent pretty much every other day that year together. Reaching out and not finding him there had felt strange, and he’d felt lonely in bed, so he’d decided to drive down to Wolverhampton at 11pm that evening as a wonderful surprise. He’s fairly sure he won’t ever forget the delighted spluttering noise Zayn made when Harry called him and told him to look out of his bedroom window. He thinks that that’s the kind of thing he’s going to keep with him his whole life, along with the way they both got the giggles halfway through as Zayn tried to ride him in his tiny single bed, his old peeling David Beckham poster still on the wall even though he’s never really been into football. Harry’s pretty certain that every boy he’s ever gone out with had their whole teenage bedroom wall covered in football posters. Breakfast the next morning with Zayn’s surprised-looking parents and his smirking sisters, observing the softness in Zayn’s face whenever he talked to the youngest one, Safaa. Zayn’s parents had been so nice, despite the unexpected boyfriend turning up halfway through the night. It made him feel like maybe Zayn had been saying nice things about him to them.

“We should do Christmas together next year,” he says. “Your family can come to Robin’s. We’ve got tons and tons of space and my mum would love it.” His mum loves Zayn, in fact. She thinks he’s a ‘lovely, lovely boy’, and she always tells Harry to put Zayn on the phone every time he tries to ring her for a chat. It would be hurtful, but he has to admit that Zayn is a lot better at getting to the point than he is. 

Zayn throws him a small curl of a smile. They’re leaning against the railings next to the river now. The sun’s hitting the water so it looks less murky than usual, and London is spread out across the river, sprawling and expensive and unfriendly and awful, and resolutely the home that Harry has made for himself over the last few years. “All right then,” he says. “You think we’re still going to be doing this next year?”

Harry’s blood runs momentarily cold. “I bloody well hope so,” he says, trying to sound normal.

“Good,” Zayn says. He’s still flushed from the cold, his black hair wild around his face, his lips bitten and pink. His nose is crinkled the way it always is when he’s smiling particularly hard, whenever he feels especially happy. Sometimes Harry feels like his only ambition is to make Zayn do that smile as often as possible for the rest of their lives. He also wants to get promoted and he wants to buy a house one day and he wants three kids and he wants to make his parents proud and he’d also kind of like a giant aquarium, but mostly he just wants to make Zayn look delighted, constantly. “In that case – let’s get married.”

For a second, the world stops turning, in the most beautiful way possible. There’s something slightly fragile and nervous behind Zayn’s smile now, something that Harry wants to catch in his hands and hold safely. Married to Zayn. For some reason, it doesn’t seem like a big deal. It just seems like the next step, logical and steady and safe and wonderful. “That’s not much of a proposal,” he says, and reaches out to hold Zayn’s hands. “I want to be wooed.”

“You want to be wooed? How do I woo you? I’ve bought you dinner at least three times in the last six months. I thought that was enough,” Zayn says. Harry can feel the warmth of him in the middle of the cold wind bouncing in off the river. “Do you want me to get down on one knee?”

“I want you to ask me the question at least,” Harry says. 

The nervousness has left Zayn’s face now. “You’re such a knob,” he says, laughing.

“Ask me!” Harry commands. He can feel himself smiling, wide and ridiculous. 

“What a horrible spoiled brat.” Zayn reaches out and touches the side of Harry’s jaw, so gentle, and then he drops to one knee. From somewhere to his left, Harry half-notes a couple of people stopping in their tracks, turning to watch. He doesn’t mind. It’s not like he’s going to be able to look anywhere other than Zayn’s face.

“Harry,” Zayn begins, soft. “Sometimes I think I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you. I—” The wind blows and it descends into unintelligible mumbling.

“I can’t hear,” Harry says. It’s awful. It’s terrible. He wants to remember this forever and Zayn’s inability to project will ruin everything. 

He drops to his knees too, and Zayn raises an eyebrow, laughs, shakes his head. “We’re such a mess,” he says.

“I love being a mess with you,” Harry says, heartfelt. Their hands are still knotted together and the pavement is freezing beneath his knees. He doesn’t care. 

“Me too,” Zayn says. “I’d rather be a mess with you than anyone else in the world.”

“No one else makes me as happy,” Harry tells him.

“No one else makes me laugh as much. I’m not ever bored with you. You’re so kind, not just to me, to everyone else as well. I love your stupid hair. I think you’re the best person I know,” Zayn says. He raises their joined hands to his mouth, presses a kiss to the back of Harry’s gloved knuckles. “God, I love you, Harry. Marry me.”

“All right then,” Harry says. “I suppose I probably should. You seem to like me quite a lot.” There’s a tight knot in his throat; he thinks he might be about to cry. He doesn’t think Zayn will be surprised if he does.

“I do. Thank God,” Zayn says. “My knees are killing me. Can we get up now?” His voice is shaking a little and when they’re on their feet again Harry can see that his eyes are bright. He grabs the bottom of Harry’s scarf, drags him in closer, leans up to kiss him. His lips are cold and so’s the tip of his nose. He presses himself against Harry like he wants to climb inside him. Harry kisses him like he’s saying, _I love you too. You’re my best person. You’re it for me._ He doesn’t know if he’s that kind. He doesn’t think he’s that funny. He knows that he probably isn’t really the best person Zayn knows. The fact that Zayn thinks he is, that’s the part that’s it, that’s the part that’s everything, that’s the part that’ll make this work. 

The world seems new, afterwards. They walk back to the station together hand in hand, sides pressed tight against each other. “We could do something else,” Zayn says doubtfully when they reach London Bridge. “We could have something to eat, or we could… we could go somewhere, or…”

“I’d quite like to go back to the flat,” Harry says, pressing his cold nose into Zayn’s cheek until he laughs and wriggles away. 

“God,” he says, voice rich with affection, “you’re the worst decision I’ve ever made. Come on, babe. Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me at [tumblr](http://flomps.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/foracorkscrew)! Any feedback is, of course, super appreciated.


End file.
